


By The Coast When I Held Your Hand

by smc_27



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22043629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smc_27/pseuds/smc_27
Summary: Most of the time, she can go through her days without thinking of New Ham. Most days, it feels like a dream. They’re going on 4 years removed from it now. Applying to UCLA was mostly an impulse and definitely just something to appease her parents. Getting in was surprising, but it also felt, truly, like exactly what she needed.  She didn’t think fucking Harry Bingham would end up here, too.She hasn’t even finished her first glass of champagne - and therefore isn’t nearly drunk enough - when he walks through the door.(or, a random NYE fic.)
Relationships: Harry Bingham/Allie Pressman
Comments: 6
Kudos: 127





	By The Coast When I Held Your Hand

She can’t get used to the fact that it’s warm over Christmas. She’s used to snow, and cold, and fireplaces and hot cocoa. Carols and seeing your breath during the town’s Santa Claus Parade. The fact that she’s wearing a sleeveless jumpsuit, cardigan, and a pair of really cute heels to this stupid party she didn’t even really want to go to...Well…

Okay, it’s not that she didn’t want to go, it’s just that she wishes she were at home, with her parents, Cassandra, and Gordie. They’re celebrating an engagement and Allie should be there. She just couldn’t get the time off her stupid job, and the semester starts on Tuesday. It’s too long a flight and too expensive to go for like two days. She’ll go over reading week. It’s fine. 

Her friend Jazzy invited her to this New Year’s Eve party, and Allie honestly couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no. She’s off work tomorrow and Jazzy is great. She was born and raised in California, so this is all normal for her. In fact, her parents usually go to Mexico for Christmas and then come back and entertain for the new year as well. Apparently it’s something Jazzy’s taking on, too. 

When Allie walks into Jazzy’s condo, the music is too loud and there are already too many people here. Allie pulls off her cardigan and drapes it over her arm, then hugs Jazzy and says hi. A glass of champagne is pressed into her hand and she takes it gladly. 

She finds a spot near the kitchen island where there’s a bowl of chips and a good view of the whole condo. It’s become her sort of go-to for situations like this. At first it was protective. Now it feels a little awkward, a little like purposely being on the outside looking in. But then again, she isn’t sure she wants to be on the inside. 

Jesus. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. It’s just hard socializing sometimes, alright? It feels weird to make small talk. Like, super pointless and really a waste of time. She likes her friends, and she knows this is sort of a means to an ends of making new ones, but even so. Another person asking her what her major is as if that’s the most interesting thing about her is something she’ll continue trying to avoid.

She hasn’t even finished her first glass of champagne - and therefore isn’t nearly drunk enough - when Harry walks through the door. 

Most of the time, she can go through her days without thinking of New Ham. Most days, it feels like a dream. They’re going on 4 years removed from it now. It’s part of the reason she moved to California for school. Staying on the east coast seemed too close to trauma, or something. Almost everyone ended up applying to Ivys, and Allie barely had it in her to think ahead as it was. Applying to UCLA was mostly an impulse and definitely just something to appease her parents. Getting in was surprising, but it also felt, truly, like exactly what she needed. 

She didn’t think fucking _Harry Bingham_ would be here, too. 

He spots her really quickly - if she didn’t know any better, she’d think he’d been looking for her - smiles and says a few hellos to people as he walks her way.

“What’s up, Allie?” he asks, sidling up next to her, that stupid grin on his face. 

The reason it’s hard to see him is it makes her feel like she’s 17 again and everything’s going to shit. In reality, she’s 22 and mostly feels like things are going well. 

“Harry.”

He rolls his eyes, grabs a bottle of Jameson off the counter and pours some into a rocks glass Jazzy had set out for folks to use. 

“What’d I do now? I haven’t even seen you in like, a year.” She doesn’t say anything, just sips her drink. “You look really good.”

“I know,” she replies, and he smiles at her, laughs a little. She thinks he likes...Well, no. He told her, maybe three years ago, or something, that he always liked how confident she was. Especially after everything, he’d said. “You look okay.”

“Okay?” She shrugs. Actually, he looks really, really hot. She’s not going to tell him that. He already knows. She knows that about him. (She knows a lot about him.) “You cut your hair.”

Allie reaches up, moves her fingers through the ends of her hair. Yeah, she cut it. About two months ago. When that asshole she was dating (who she didn’t know was an asshole until he fucking cheated on her) told her the best thing about her was her long hair. 

She cut it. Because fuck him. 

“You like it?”

He moves his hand, then, loops a curl around his finger and rubs his thumb over it. “Yeah.”

She gives him the side eye. It’s always so intense with him. Maybe it’s that he’s the guy she lost her virginity to, in another timeline, or maybe it’s that they were in another timeline together at all. She’s never really sure. And most times, she wants to pretend as though she’d like to avoid it, but then there’s the other side of it. The other side of it, which is that it’s intense, but it’s easy, too. As easy as him reaching out to touch her hair, or this banter they always seem to have. To the rest of the people they know, it’s nothing more than the fact they went to highschool together. She hates that she likes the secret they share, that it’s more than that. 

She thinks about it too much entirely, for something she encounters about once a year. 

He’s right, too, about that timing. The last time she saw him, they were at a frat party to begin the semester after the holidays. She’d come back from West Ham after the break, and he’d spent it in L.A. As he’d said, ‘getting fucked up and avoiding his mothers’ calls.’ She’s not sure how she feels about that, knowing what she knows about his past drug use. But she sure as hell knows it’s not her place to feel anything at all about it. She has about as much say in his habits as she does the habits of any other relative stranger. 

She asks, “How do you know Jazzy?”

Harry says, “Who?” and is totally serious, and Allie just laughs, shakes her head, and downs the last of her champagne. 

For some reason - and she so wishes she could blame the alcohol - she finds that so fucking endearing that she just wants to leave and spend the rest of her night with him. 

She’s not known for her good choices, okay?

She reaches for an unopened bottle of red wine off the counter, holds it up. 

“You wanna get out of here?” she asks, looking at Harry from under her lashes. 

He gives her that infuriating half grin of his, nods, and says, “Yeah,” and then she’s got a bottle of wine in one hand, his wrist in her other, and she’s heading for the door before anyone can ask her why she’s leaving so soon. 

They’re on the street and she drops his hand, presses the bottle against his chest so he’ll take it and she can pull her cardigan on. It also buys her some time to think about what the fuck she’s doing and where they’re going. She doesn’t really want to invite him over to her place. She should’ve thought this through. She just has this messed up thing that when she sees him, she sort of always wants to be alone with him. That goes way back, too. She doesn’t want to think of how long. Easily since before New Ham. When he was the only one working on the play who’d make eye contact with her, other than Cassandra or Will, and she’d thought he’d only been doing it to piss her sister off. 

God, what would Cassandra think of this? 

He speaks up first, says, “My place?” and she nods without thinking of what a colossally bad idea it is. 

He’s got his phone is his hand and a Lyft on the way before she can ask where his place is. It doesn’t matter, maybe. They’ve got this bottle of red and all their history. 

He places his hand on her hip, pushes his other through his hair. “Relax, Pressman. Fuck.”

“Sorry.” She has no idea why she’s apologizing; she’s gotten really good at not apologizing for her emotions, actually. He’s looking down the street, his face illuminated by his phone as he checks the licence plate number of their car again and waits. “We haven’t been alone since…”

“I know how long it’s been.” The way he cuts her off is more gentle than she’s used to. It’s almost a reminder that she’s not alone in these things, these memories. It was New Ham. When they were last really alone. 

She really, really wants to get drunk. She twists the cap off this bottle of wine and takes a swig. Harry just looks at her like he’s surprised, or maybe impressed, that she’s done it. Then he turns back to the street and she wraps her free arm around his waist, presses herself against his back. Her cheek is against his shoulder blade and she feels his hand come up to rest atop hers. If he’s weirded how by how she’s acting, he’s not letting on. She appreciates it. 

They get into the back of this car, and Harry takes the bottle from her, has a drink. She catches the driver’s eye in the rear view and he winks at her, which feels creepy. Harry takes her hand again. She thinks he saw that, too. She thinks he didn’t like it, either.

His place isn’t far. He tells her that he lives alone. Maybe he’s priming her for that so she isn’t put off by being there with just him, but that’s a little ridiculous. She thought she was being pretty obvious about the fact that’s exactly what she wants. 

“Gross guy. No stars. No tip,” Harry says once they’re dropped off. 

Allie doesn’t know why she finds that funny, but she laughs and then he’s slipping his phone into one pocket and pulling his keys from the other. There’s a little fob on his keyring which he swipes to get them into the building. Figures, he’d live by himself in a condo that’s probably bought and paid for. Her family isn’t exactly struggling, but they’re certainly not purchasing real estate for her temporary living situation across the country. She has a roommate because it’s cheaper and easier, and her small two bedroom place is cute and was renovated before she moved in, but it’s not like this.

Harry pushes his 13th floor apartment door open with one arm and she walks through. It’s as expected - she thinks most condos are more or less the same. There’re stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, this beautiful wood flooring she’s a little jealous of. As he switches on a couple more lights, she sees his furniture is all light greys and navy accents.

“Your mom decorated this place, didn’t she?”

Harry lets out a breath of a laugh. “I wasn’t gonna argue.” Allie smiles, finally sets the wine bottle down. She walks over to the window and looks out, hears glassware clinking together and figures he’s getting something from the cupboards. “You hungry?”

She shrugs her shoulder, slips off her cardigan again. When she turns around, he’s pouring a glass for her, not looking at her, and she can’t tell if she’s annoyed by or just admiring the fact that he seems to get more attractive every time she bumps into him.

She doesn’t mean to laugh. It’s really more of a whimper, or something, which is just so embarrassing. He looks at her curiously.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, and he presses the glass against her palm, nods once. “How are you this hot?”

Harry’s laugh is great. It’s so rare that he lets out one like this. It makes her smile. It makes her nervous. 

“Could ask you the same thing, to be honest.”

“I didn’t want to leave with you for…” He looks downward, then moves over and sits down on his sofa. She doesn’t want to sit yet. She wants him to really hear what she’s saying. “I wasn’t hitting on you.”

“Are you hitting on me now? With that question?” Allie shakes her head, uses her hand to pull her hair all to one side. He glances to her neck. She doesn’t hate that, either. She’s always sort of loved that she could tell he found her attractive. “Why’re you being weird?”

“I’m not.” Yeah, she said that way too quickly. He just watches her. She figures she can’t just stand up all night, so she sits down next to him. She likes the way her black polished nails look holding this wine glass, in this lighting, in his fancy apartment. “I’m not drunk enough yet for us to get real honest with each other.”

Harry chuckles again, taps his glass against hers and they both take sips. It’s another callback to the last time they saw one another. They’d both had several drinks and he’d leaned down and said he missed her. She’d called bullshit, but he’d shaken his head and she’d bitten her lip, shoved his shoulder, and said, “Me, too.” Then he’d started asking a question she didn’t want to hear (“Do you ever think about…”) and she’d told him to stop. He’d listened, nodded his head, and kissed her temple before walking away. 

She knows exactly why it’s so hard to talk to him - or to anyone - about New Ham. No one fucking gets it, obviously. That’s the main thing. There’s no way to explain or describe what happened and not sound like an absolute fucking lunatic. When they were back in West Ham after everything reset, or whatever, there were specialized therapists to help. But that resource dried up when they all sort of went their separate ways for school. She remembers the coping mechanisms (the healthy ones) and the breathing techniques. She still does them. What she doesn’t do is rehash what happened and keep in touch with a bunch of the people who were there. Gordie is one thing. The exception. 

Harry is...Harry is something else. 

Allie lets her shoes fall to the floor and pulls her leg up under her. Harry’s staring. “Are you doing an internship?”

“Jesus,” he laughs, shaking his head. He almost cuts her off, really. She’s confused. “You don’t actually want to make small talk, do you?”

She doesn’t know what she wants, if she’s being truly honest. She liked the flirting. It was safe and easy, somehow. They could play it off as a joke. Actually talking...She’s not sure how to do that with him. 

“What do you want to do?” she asks, and Harry grins, picks up his phone and starts playing some music on this fancy speaker system he has. “Harry.”

“Wanna get high and share our favourite songs?” He leans his head back, closes his eyes. 

Allie slouches a little further into the sofa and sips her wine. “No to the drugs, yes to the music.”

“Buzzkill.”

“Asshole.”

His hand finds hers between them and when she looks over, he’s smiling, his eyes still closed. “I’m obsessed with this song right now.”

She listens, sips her wine for the duration of the song. He reaches over at one point and plays with the bracelet she’s wearing. She doesn’t mind. She likes it. It’s absolutely stupid, but she knows that if he asks her to stay the night, or offers up a place to sleep, she’s going to say yes. She’s decided it. Because why not? For some reason, she feels more like herself around him than she has in ages around anyone else. 

“What’s your wifi password?” she asks, and Harry just laughs. 

“Shit, you want a drawer in my bedroom, too?” It’s meant to be a joke, she thinks, but she doesn’t think it’s funny. “Here.” He takes her phone, types it in. She notices he didn’t just tell her. It might bother her a little, which is sort of stupid. “What’ve you got?”

“Okay, don’t think this is stupid.” It’s an order. He just grins. “This girl’s like, a young Taylor Swift, but a better singer.”

“Not hard.”

“Shush.” Like, does he really want to fight? Because that makes it sound like he wants to fight. 

She starts playing the song and she’s watching him, but he’s looking up at the ceiling, then he starts sort of moving his head a little. She watches a curl at his temple dance a bit as the chorus starts, then one corner of his mouth ticks up. God. 

“You’re staring.”

“You’re attractive.” He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and flexes his fingers against hers. “Harry.”

“I’m listening.”

“Harry.” He turns his head to look at her, like he was just trying to lighten the mood because she made it all intense again. “I really just...I’m trying not to freak out about how easy this feels. Everything else feels...so fucking hard, sometimes.”

“How easy what feels?” he asks, and he’s serious, like he really doesn’t know what she’s talking about. 

“Us,” she says, and his fingers move against her palm. She thinks he’s trying to pull his hand away. She won’t stop him. If this is all one-sided, she’d like to know now. But he was pulling his hand away so he could lean forward, angle his body towards hers and move his hand to the outside of her thigh. “It makes no sense.”

“Maybe it does.”

“It doesn’t.”

He’s smirking at her, which she hates. “Allie.” God...He can’t just say her name like that and act like the things she’s saying aren’t completely fucking stupid. But she’s seen him give girls the brush off before, and this isn’t it. “It’s the trauma.”

“Stop,” she says, laughing a little, and she goes to push him away but he moves his hand up her thigh further and onto her hip. “Am I being stupid?”

“No,” he answers quietly, shaking his head. She believes him. “Maybe we should’ve spent time alone before now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it feels good.” It’s a simple answer. She thinks it’s the best one. He looks down again. “Because I like you.”

She blows out a quick breath. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“I like what I do know.” She’s still holding this stupid wine glass, but all she wants to do is touch him. So she leans forward, her shoulder brushing his, and sets the glass on the table in front of her. Then she moves her hand up and pushes that curl back from his temple. His eyes close for a moment. “And if you didn’t like me, you wouldn’t be here.”

She wants to say something sarcastic, but she just smiles and he quirks his brow. “You’re right.”

“Do you…” Their eyes meet, then he shakes his head, looks downward. She strokes her thumb against his temple, prompting him. “We could kiss.”

She laughs softly. “What a line.”

“Just a suggestion,” he says, grinning, and she presses her lips together and thinks this whole thing is absolutely stupid. But if they’re going to make bad decisions, they may as well really go for broke. 

She pushes him away, stands, and reaches for his hand. She turns in the direction of his bedroom and he stands up and follows her. It’s dark in there, and he sets his hands on her hips from behind her, says her name against her hair and pulls her back against him. She just raises her arm and reaches over with her other hand to unzip her clothing. Harry’s breathing in her ear. She likes that, too. She sort of wonders if he expected this when he invited her here. It doesn’t matter or make a difference whatsoever. She wants what she wants. 

She turns in his arms and he’s looking at her lips. When she sets her hand on the back of his neck, he leans forward and rests his forehead against hers, lets out this sigh that sounds a lot like relief, and she really, really loves that. 

His lips are soft on hers, gentle like he wants to be careful. Like he wants this to be delicate. Like she might not be able to handle anything else. Maybe he’s right. She doesn’t know. 

He scrubs his hand over the back of his neck when she pulls away and pushes herself back on his bed. Her hair’s all messy beneath her and he’s looking at her like he thinks…

No. She’s not going to speculate. If she wants to know, she’ll just ask. He’ll tell her.


End file.
